to you, i was an orchid
with dramatic petals and a languid stem
but the soil was concrete,
heavy and full, left to harden in the sun
this way doesn’t come naturally to me
this way has been learned, assumed, forced
as a precaution, out of necessity,
over time and under duress
this way of being soft
in a world (home) of calloused palms and leather belts
sweet, in a world (home) of salt and brimstone, kept in the cupboard to serve at your convenience
still, in a world (home) of pacing, muttering, restless as you clung to your nightmare then handed it to me
small, in a world (home) of looming monsters, stretching and spilling into each corner and crevice until there’s no space left
silent, in a world (home) of creaking floorboards in the hallway, searching for the tone that determined how long i could remain that way
what i never imagined is how much i would have liked to remain soft
but it all has to go somewhere
the violence outside of, becoming the violence within
i feel it pulling back my cheeks with my fingers full of spit, crawling into my throat
waves lapping up behind my rib cage, swelling into those same fingertips as i reach for yours
removing pieces of myself to become whole
contorting into my own bunker, my own casket, my own garden soil
to shelter the ease, the bliss, the sanctuary i have grown between my fibrous negative space
the bittersweet contradiction of inner peace amid a war, hated for the love i keep finding
cutting off my own body parts with intention as theirs are blown off with revulsion, compulsion
i try holding it together with threads of every length and texture
but you’re made of cut glass
i try again with toothpicks, some broken, some cracked
but you won’t stop shaking the table and kicking your feet
“you’ve always been difficult” [to love]
if your god didn’t make me this way, then whose fault is it?
i’ve never been able to see myself aging
maybe because of your own resistance to time,
or simply because most of us don’t have the privilege of doing so
but recently a blurry image has been forming
you will not have the honor of noticing my skin loosen, my joints stiffen
you won’t be there to note the lines of my wonder, the creases of my abandon
your picture will not be framed in my hallway
i hope i am soft, i hope i am tender, i hope i am
~~~
Olyve Napier-Diaz is a sometimes writer, sometimes mixed media artist, sometimes dancer, always friend based in Seattle, Washington but deeply-rooted in Detroit, Appalachia, and Puerto Rico. They grew up in diy warehouse art spaces, trained in art installation and fabrication, and until recently, worked in galleries and museums in access programming. Their work is an intrinsic and chaotic practice in connecting internal and external; sorting through the self-discovery of a trans and queer person in a magical world that doesn't want you to exist. They play in many mediums, but are drawn to messy, textured, and layered processes. In their daily life, they work for a labor union, and spend time in community organizing, watching movies, vacuuming their dog's hair off the floor, and looking at flowers.
